Friday, November 28, 2008
The philosopher lives in the thought of things; the Christian lives in the things themselves.
The philosopher occupies himself with God's decree; the Christian with God's will.
The philosopher with what God may intend; the Christian with what God wants him to do."
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The first hint of dawn reveals a tender hue drawn in sharp contrast to the steely cloud above. All the world is black. The sky alone conceives colour.
The living paint of light’s palate bleeds across the animated canvas. Stark orange, translucent and bright in its depth, but soothing in its tone, splashes nearest the charcoal border. Softening as it moves upward, the base colour grows lighter and lighter, as warm and comfortable butter cream yellow is added, swirling, always in upward strokes, into whiter and whiter shades, till it is transparent.
Now the shapes of the overhanging blankets of steely clouds find definition; their edges revealed by the soft light slowly stealing through their once-impenetrable depth.
The land below the sky steadily alters. Silhouettes gain depth and shadow. Blackened landmarks take form. Somewhere outside, a great horned owl sings a ballad of the dawn.
Twinkling lights from the neighbours pale in comparison to the climaxing hues of deep pink stroked into the bottom-most crevice of the colour spectrum, reflected in ribbons of softer colour on the clouds above. All the while, the light grows brighter; white is added from above as well as below. The sky beyond the sunrise is already light, as though it were well-travelled in the day’s journey.
The fire grows deeper, the intensity increases, the sprays of bright pink strengthen their hold of the low-lying clouds and deepen their influence on the higher clusters. Along the base of the sky, white is showing through, making me believe that it was there all along; and that instead of being added as an afterthought, it is, instead, the foundation, and the disintegrating darkness rather reveals what was meant to be all along. As spreads the white, so travels the pink, accenting the dawn like a great clash of celebratory cymbals, awakening the heart to the grandeur of daily creation.
The grey fields sleepily awake from their slumber. All will soon be revealed, and I wonder, will the world below the sky live today in the wonder of the sunrise? What will the new day bring light for? Will all be grey and dull in the world, colourless, destitute? What will man do with his destitution? The greater glory of the sky makes my heart pine for something more than what I may know on the journey of earth. Why did the sun awaken earth and sky?
Purple: triumph, royalty, exultation softly spreads over the canvas. As the pink expands, the purple follows it like the echoes of a jubilant parade. An orange surge of joyful victory runs victoriously at the bottom of the sky. Now pink is only a reflection of the orange, the living, glorious fire of light itself. Glory gives way to more glory in the sky, but it reveals the converse below. The more I see of the earth, the more dull, lifeless, frozen, helpless it is revealed.
A great mixing brush combines the colours, and sponges the sky is softening pink. As the sunrise dies, its magnitude and brilliance increase in happiness. The sky, now tender, inviting, rejoicing, beckons earth to join the song of heaven. Could it be that the sky is only the out skirting of something beyond itself?
Could it be that the sky is merely a reflection of yet a greater glory? Ever deepening, ever softening, ever moving outwards and upwards, calling us, enabling us, coaxing us, whetting us, to look to the sun. The heart is wooed to look to God, in Whose living light I see light. I could not know the ugliness of the world if not for the beauty of the sky. I could not know the wonder of the sky if not for the terrible and beautiful sun, all danger, all wonder, bursting forth in silent song; burning away all darkness, till all the sky is transcended and penetrated, and all the earth is transformed.
A greater glory than I can conceive make the sun, made the world, and made the man who walks on it. Only in His condescension can I hope. Will He be merciful, or will He destroy in His brilliance? Yes. His glory reveals all His foes, all the worthless grey of the landmarks I create. And His mercy penetrates the darkness of my soul. Hope`s light incinerates all enemies with truth, and in the remaining emptiness, holy love from God Himself fills, and creates life.
In the sunrise, God reveals His glory, His truth; and says, `Worship Me. I am. And I am worthy.`